Glitch

if everyone slept in
    one room, but they know bonds can form when people are
    in close physical contact, bonds that might become stronger
    than the V-chip control.”
    “Really?” I smiled in wonder at the thought.
    “Well, not the adult V-chip. Nothing can get past that.
    But otherwise, yes, it’s our nature.” He leaned in. “The
    V-chip really only works in part because people accept it.
    People’ll give up almost anything to think that they’re safe
    from pain and fear. I mean, I get it. I really do. It’s so much
    crackin’ easier to accept an easy solution— even if it means
    letting yourself be lied to. The hard thing is fi nding the
    strength in yourself to stand up against the tide and say shunt
    no , I refuse!” His eyes were alight with passion as he talked,
    but he pulled back and laughed a little at himself. “Sorry, I
    can get worked up about this stuff .”
    “It sounds so simple and yet so impossible.” I felt a mix of
    sadness and joy.
    He leaned in, his face close to mine. “I know.”
    He had such a nice face, with light brown skin and heavy
    eyebrows and most of all, those eyes. I leaned in for a closer
    look. They looked green from far away but up close I could
    see they were a darker green around the edges that melted
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    into a translucent blue in the middle, with a million little
    bright aquamarine fl ecks that seemed to sparkle. I thought
    that was a good word for Adrien himself— all of him spar-
    kled and he lit me up until I sparkled inside, too. I suddenly
    felt so happy right now, so much more warm and contented
    maybe than I’d ever been.
    I had a fl ash of memory— of his face, closer than it was
    now. Of his lips on mine, his hands cradling my head and
    the sensation like I was falling, like my stomach had dropped
    out and was replaced by a fl ickering, hot fi re.
    My breath hitched and I pulled back from him, lifting a
    hand to my lips in shock at the memory. “Adrien,” I said,
    feeling out of breath at the intensity of the memory.
    Adrien’s face seemed almost for an instant to show a glim-
    mer of response, but he covered it quickly and didn’t answer
    my question. “See you at the Academy tomorrow, Zoe,” he
    whispered, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment before
    his face became a mask again.
    He got up and moved the ceiling tile, then pulled himself
    up into the darkness. I watched him go, my frozen fi ngers
    still touching my lips, till fi nally, he was gone.
    My dreams that night were a long replay of the strange
    stirring lightness at seeing Adrien’s animated face, his eyes
    glittering up when he looked at me. Happiness expanded
    inside of me the longer we sat together.
    And then, on the brink of a wild soaring joy, the dream
    changed again back to the old nightmare. This time it began
    earlier. My brother and I were creeping through the forest.
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    I could smell the leaves, feel the foreign breeze and all the
    countless noises surrounding us.
    In the dream, Markan had turned back to me and I
    studied him. He was taller, older. His features were more
    sharp than round. Shh, Zoe, he had whispered. Don’t make
    a sound.
    But I was confused. We were on the Surface and I knew
    I wasn’t supposed to be there. And Markan wasn’t supposed
    to be acting like this. He was behaving anomalously. I was
    supposed to report anomalous behavior.
    Shh, Zoe. Don’t make a sound.
    But I did. I did make a sound. I’d heard my voice, though
    it was like I was split in two— hearing myself scream to alert
    the Regulators in the clearing we were passing by—
    and
    watching it happen with horror at the same time.
    The Regulators came running from all directions, crush-
    ing the green brush beneath their feet. I saw Markan’s face
    go white with terror. He ran, but they were faster. From then
    on the dream was the same as always— his face crashing into
    the ground, them lifting him up, his face covered in blood.
    Screaming and thrashing.
    All the next day I was so preoccupied, nauseated with the
    memory that I barely heard it when the microhardware en-
    gineering instructor leaned his head out of a classroom and
    called my name as I passed his door between classes.
    I dropped my hands to my side and stopped. “Yes?”
    “I request your assistance arranging the equipment.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said, inwardly frowning.
    “Here, take these to the supply closet.” He handed me a
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    tray of microfusing tools.